What revolution?

When I was
a zealous, idealistic youth I used to stand on street corners selling a
socialist newspaper, convinced the socialist revolution would save the world
from ruin. Looking back - to the 1970s - it's difficult not to see myself as a
tad deluded. Not because I've stopped believing in socialism - I still reckon
it's our only hope - but, well, pissing into the wind is a phrase that springs
to mind and pretty well covers people's apathy. An incident, one very cold,
wintry afternoon in Dudley, West
Midlands,
spoke volumes.

My friend,
Dave, and I had been standing at a busy street corner for nearly two hours. We
hadn't sold a single newspaper. We were beginning to wonder if we'd finally
lost our minds. Shoppers scurried around us looking for bargains in the January
sales, oblivious to the two young men freezing to death in what was quickly
becoming a blizzard. We sheltered in a shop doorway. About to give up and go
home, in fact rapidly losing the will to live, someone tapped me on the
shoulder. I turned. Before me stood a man carrying two large, bulging bin bags.

'Hello,
lads,' he said chirpily, jet-black hair slicked back flat on his head.

My mouth
was so numb with cold I could barely speak. I nodded.

'Do me a
favour, lads... keep an eye out for the cops will ya?'

I nodded
again, then looked at Dave who was as perplexed as I was.

The man
turned, gingerly, and stepped out into the snow. He opened one of his bags and
pulled out what appeared to be a plastic cup with a piece of string coming out
of a hole in the bottom. On top of the cup was a single, bright yellow feather.
He pulled on the string and made a loud, clucking sound. The cup was, to all
intents, a 'chicken'. Within minutes, and despite the increasingly severe
weather, he was surrounded by dozens of people wanting to buy his wares.
Children badgered their parents for one, or two, or three... to be honest, he
couldn't sell them quickly enough.

Dave and I
were incredulous. We were out to save the world. Didn't these people know?
People were dying in the Third World for lack of just the basics in life. We couldn't give our
newspaper away, let alone sell them and yet this guy was making a small fortune
- out of plastic cups!

Was it
symbolic, this little scene being played out before us? Was this capitalism
putting it over on socialism? The free market winning out over the planned
economy?

After a
short while, with his bags almost empty, the guy came over to us.

'Thanks,
lads,' he said.

Actually we
hadn't done anything. He looked at the newspaper I was holding up.

'What ya
selling?' he asked.

'It's a
socialist paper.' He looked bemused. 'Ya, know. Politics?' I added by way of
explanation.

'Oh,' he
said, still confused. 'Well, look, I'll come back later and sell some for ya.'

With that
he left, swallowed up by the crowds and the snow.

He never
did come back. But I had this horrible feeling that had he returned he would
have sold all our papers - and no doubt, pocketed the money!

Dave and I
packed up our wares and trudged home, disconsolate and thoroughly
disillusioned.

We never
did get our revolution. In fact a few years later the world got Thatcher and
Reagan. The world got laissez-faire,
no-holds-barred capitalism.

And somewhere, in Dudley, there
were lots of kids that got plastic cups that clucked, and clucked and clucked!

It's funny you mention the ’clucking chicken’ cups... There's a man that stands on the corner near our apartment in Buenos Aires every Sunday selling those devices. I believe the modern-day version is what I would call the ’smashing tomato:’ it's an odd chemical replica of a tomato that can be *smashed* against a hard surface -- making quite a humorous visual -- and then it slowly reconstitutes itself.

Perhaps all we socialists need is clucking cups in the likeness of Lennon?

About the author

Alan Hughes is a graphic artist at New Internationalist. He is a life-long socialist and trade unionist and is currently involved in the Keep Our NHS Public Campaign. He is passionate about The Beatles and has supported Aston Villa FC for over 50 years. He lives in Oxford with his daughter.

New Internationalist reports on issues of world poverty and inequality. We focus attention on the unjust relationship between the powerful and the powerless worldwide in the fight for global justice. More about our work